Light on Lucrezia - By Plaidy, Jean Page 0,13

he is too possessive. It is almost as though …” But he could not say it. He had not the courage. There were questions he wanted to ask, and he was afraid to ask them. He had been so happy, and he wanted to go on being happy.

Lucrezia put her arms about his neck and kissed him in that gentle way which never failed to be a source of excitement to him.

“He is my brother,” she said simply. “We were brought up together. We have shared our lives and it has made us good friends.”

“It would seem when he is by that you are unaware of any other.”

She laid her head against his chest and laughed. “You are indeed a jealous husband.”

“Lucrezia,” he cried, “have I cause to be?”

Then she lifted her face to his and her eyes were still full of limpid innocence. “You know I want no other husband,” she said. “I was unhappy, desperately unhappy, and I thought never to laugh in joy again. Then you came, and since you came, I have found happiness.”

He kissed her with increasing passion. “Love me, Lucrezia,” he pleaded. “Love me … only.”

They clung together, but even in the throes of lovemaking Alfonso could not rid himself of the memory of Cesare.

Cesare was in the ring. The assembled company watched him with admiration, for he was the most able matador in Rome. His Spanish origin was obvious as, lithe and graceful, he twisted his elegant body this way and that, springing from the path of the onrushing bull at that precise moment in time when death seemed inevitable.

Alfonso, sitting beside Lucrezia and watching her fingers twisting the embroideries on her dress, was aware of the anxiety she was experiencing. Alfonso did not understand. He could have sworn that she was glad because Cesare would soon be leaving for France; yet now, watching his antics in the bullring, he was equally sure that she was conscious of no one but her brother.

Alfonso murmured: “God in Heaven, Holy Mother and all the saints, let him not escape. Let the furious bull be the instrument of justice—for many have died more horribly at his hands.”

Smiling coolly Sanchia watched the man who had been her lover. She thought: I hope the bull gets him, tramples him beneath those angry hoofs … not to kill him … no, but to maim him so that he will never walk or run or leap again, never make love to his Carlotta of Naples. Carlotta of Naples! Much chance he has! But let him lose his beauty, and his manhood be spoiled, so that I may go to him and laugh in his face and taunt him as he has taunted me.

Among those who watched there were others who remembered suffering caused them by Cesare Borgia, many who prayed for his death.

But had Cesare died that day there would have been three to mourn him with sincerity—the Pope who watched him with the same mingling of pride and fear as Lucrezia’s; Lucrezia herself; and a red-headed courtesan named Fiametta, who had sought to grow rich by his favors and found that she loved him.

But, for all the wishes among the spectators in the ring that day, Cesare emerged triumphant. He slew his bulls. He stood the personification of elegance, indolently accepting the applause of the crowds. And he seemed a symbol of the future, there with his triumph upon him. His proud gestures seemed to imply that the conqueror of bulls would be the conqueror of Italy.

The Pope sent for his son that he might impart the joyful news.

“Louis promises not to be ungenerous, Cesare,” he cried. “See what he offers you! It is the Dukedom of Valence, and a worthy income with the title.”

“Valence,” said Cesare, trying to hide his joy. “I know that to be a city on the Rhône near Lyons in Dauphiné. The income … what is that?”

“Ten thousand écus a year,” chuckled the Pope. “A goodly sum.”

“A goodly sum indeed. And Carlotta?”

“You will go to the French Court and begin your wooing at once.” The Pope’s expression darkened. “I shall miss you, my son. I like not to have the family scattered.”

“You have your new son, Father.”

“Alfonso!” The Pope’s lips curled with contempt.

“It would seem,” muttered Cesare, “that the only member of the family who is pleased with its new addition is Lucrezia.”

The Pope murmured indulgently: “Lucrezia is a woman, and Alfonso a very handsome young man.”

“It sickens me to see them together.”

The Pope